“I guess not.”
“Damn right it isn’t! Rick, he’s always carrying on about how tough he’s got it. Well, news flash—other people in this rotten business got it tough, too. Me, I got all these roadies on my hands, and half of them’re dumb as posts, and the other half’re scrambling for position—my position. I got that cocksucker of a manager of his screaming at me so loud I’m like to go deaf one of these days. I got promoters and his booking agent and the security people at the concert venues, and they all want something. The guitar and drum techs’re a total pain in the ass, and the lighting guys go artistic on me all the time. Then there’s the transportation that never shows up when it’s supposed to, and the hotel reservations that disappear right before we get there. I work my butt off twenty hours a day when we’re on the road, catch a few z’s on the plane, then wake up and do it all over again. And you know what the hell of it is?”
I shook my head, fascinated by this outburst.
“When everything’s said and done, the only guy who gives me credit is your fuckin’ brother-in-law, and I hate his guts!”
“Why?”
“Why do I hate him? Because of what he does to people.”
“People like Patricia Terriss.”
“So we’re back to her. Okay, you want to know about her and me? I’ll tell you. He flat-out rejected her, hurt her bad. So she called me. We talked. She was my friend. She even stayed with me once when she had no place else to go. She said I was the first real friend she’d ever had.”
Of course she’d told him that. Terriss instinctively knew how to play others in order to get what she wanted. “And?” I asked.
“Yeah, I know what you’re getting at. Okay, I gave her his phone numbers and address. And you know what? I’d do it again.”
“Did you know she was planning to harass him? Did you know she was planning to threaten his children?”
“She’d never’ve done that. She just wanted to get him back.”
“She never had him in the first place.”
Rattray was silent. “I guess not,” he said after a moment. “People like Rick, they can’t belong to anybody.”
But he was wrong there. In his way, Ricky had belonged to my sister for eighteen years. Belonged to his children, and always would. Belonged to Rae now, with a sureness that had grown swiftly and strongly. People like Ricky had to belong to someone, because there was a piece missing inside of them that only a person who cared could supply. Rattray wouldn’t understand that, though, so I pressed on with my questions.
“When did you give her the numbers and address?”
“The office number, about two weeks after we got back from Texas. The house one, a few weeks later. The address, a while after that.”
“And when did you last see her?”
“Middle of June, we had lunch. She called once after that, though, toward the end of the month. She said Rick was going to come back to her. She sounded… happy.” He spoke the last word as if it was foreign to his vocabulary. “It didn’t work out, though, and I never heard from her again.”
Rattray relighted his joint. I had nothing more to ask or to say to him, so we sat in silence. Around San Bernardino the train began climbing through the mountains. At first the tracks paralleled the freeway, and the lights of night-crawling semis glanced off the window; then we curved away into blackness so total that it seemed we’d left the world behind. I’d resigned myself to seeing nothing till we got to our destination, when the tracks or the freeway—or maybe both—took a different tack and reconnected. Diverged and reconnected again and again as we climbed.
I watched the shifting pattern of light and darkness. Thought how deceptive it was. Thought, too, how much it was like my relationship with Hy. Just when I’d believed we were moving in close parallel lines, I’d found we were actually veering in different directions. Veering off into nothingness, perhaps.
He never came to the compartment as he’d promised. Eventually I fell asleep and didn’t wake till Ricky shook me and said that Rae had never arrived at San Francisco Airport.
RAE’S DIARY:
5:07 A.M., PDT
Airports are totally depressing places in the wee hours of the morning, and LAX is even more so than your average. You expect hustle and glitz when in Los Angeles; it’s more or less required of the city, if it wants to hang on to its image. But empty baggage carousels, a scattering of bleary-eyed people, and half-asleep employees at the rental-car counters don’t do it. At least Hertz was open, though, and more than glad to offload one of their compacts on me.
By now it was after six in New Mexico, and Ricky should be at the hotel. Would have called Shar’s house around three like he’d promised and realized I wasn’t there. And would be seriously worried.
I should have phoned his cellular from the limo as soon as I changed my mind about taking the flight he’d chartered for me, but I knew he’d be boarding the train and caught up in the press party. And later I remembered that he’d loaned the cell phone to Shar, so I couldn’t reach him anyway. Shar was the absolute last person I wanted to talk to, because she’d yell at me for continuing to investigate after she’d called me off the case. But I couldn’t stop now, not till I knew the truth.
Truth. She and I share this crazy-making obsession with it. It’s nearly been the death of her in the past, and the way my life’s going, it’s likely to be the death of me in the future. Can’t help it, though; it’s something I was born with, along with freckles and a tendency toward chubby thighs.
Anyway, while I was at the Century Plaza, I should have tried to get hold of somebody—Hy or maybe Kurt Girdwood—to pass along a message to Ricky. But I’d gotten so caught up in my research into Mick’s files that I just plain forgot. And then, when I hadn’t come up with anything there, I’d been in a hurry to get going. Now the clerk’s computer was taking a long time to do its stuff, so I might as well take advantage of the delay.
I excused myself and went over to the phones. I had scrawled the number for the Hyatt Regency in my notebook, and I found the page while shoving my calling card into the phone with my other hand.
The Midnight tour hadn’t checked in yet, the desk told me.
Damn! I left a voice-mail message for Ricky, just saying I was okay, had had a change of plans, and would get back to him later. Then I hurried to the counter, signed and initialed the rental agreement, and went out to the curb to wait for the shuttle bus.
As I stood there I crossed my fingers and tried to cross my toes. The information in Jenny Gordon’s fax could lead to the break we needed to put this whole mess behind us—the break Ricky and I needed so we could get on with our life together.
I closed my eyes, picturing his face when he’d looked down at me in front of Union Station and said, “I love you, Red.” Opened them and saw the bus was there.
Twenty-three
7:03 A.M., Mountain Daylight Time
The City of Albuquerque and Country Radio KRST welcome the Midnight Train to Nowhere tour… You’re not blacked out in New Mexico!
The words trailed along on a monitor in the center of the nearly deserted ticket lobby at the airport. A couple of the band members cheered and some people clapped, but Ricky barely seemed to notice. Our flight had been late leaving Barstow, and he was both exhausted and preoccupied with worry about Rae.
He’d tried to call her at my house at three, but there had been no answer; he then checked with the service that was supposed to pick her up at SFO and found her flight had never arrived. After he woke me, I got on to the air-charter company; they said the L.A. limo driver had canceled the flight at Rae’s request. The limo service had no record of where the driver had dropped her, and refused to give me his home number. I asked if they would check with him and get back to me. They resisted, so I put Ricky on; he reminded them that his label was a major customer and would be forced to find a different service if they didn’t cooperate. We were arriving in Barstow by then and, since cellular units can’
t be used while airborne, he asked them to leave a message at the hotel in Albuquerque. Now he was anxious to get there and check his voice mail.
Fortunately, the transportation worked smoothly on this end, and we were soon at the Hyatt Regency—some twenty stories of pebbled granite and marble, with a palm-filled atrium in the center of its lobby. As we waited for our room keys, I studied the palms, wondering if they actually were alive; ever since a friend told me that the very lifelike palms in Orange County’s John Wayne Airport are embalmed, I’ve viewed all indoor trees with suspicion. My contemplation gave me a good excuse to avoid dealing with Hy, who had acted increasingly distant on the plane.
Ricky came away from the desk looking semi-relieved. “The clerk says I’ve got a number of voice-mail messages; I’m hoping one’s from Red.”
“I’ll come to your suite while you check them out.”
Hy joined us, handing me my key card. “I’d better come too, make sure the room’s secure.”
We went to the elevators and rode in silence to the top floor with Forrest Curtin, Pete Sherman, and Kurt Girdwood. The party was long over; everyone was tired and looking forward to getting some sleep. We separated in the hallway, the three of them going to the left, the three of us to the right. Guards from RKI’s nearest office, in Phoenix, were already in place at the entrances to the wings.
Ricky went straight to the phone in his sitting room, while I collapsed on a chair and Hy checked out the adjoining bedroom. My brother-in-law accessed his voice mail and began jotting things down on a note pad. A couple of times he grimaced and shook his head, then his face softened and an expression of longing stole over it. He replayed the last message and replaced the receiver.
“Well, she called at a little after six—five, California time. She says she’s okay, has had a change of plans, and will get back to me later.”
“Not terribly forthcoming.”
“No, but at least she’s all right.”
“Anything from the limo service?”
“The driver’s home number; he’s willing to talk with us anytime. You want to call him?”
I nodded and picked up an extension phone on the table beside me. As I dialed the number he’d circled on the pad, Hy came out of the bedroom, gave us a thumbs-up sign, and sat on the sofa. Ricky paced while I spoke with the driver.
“Lady asked me to cancel her flight to SFO,” he said. “I dropped her at the Tower at Century Plaza around one o’clock.”
“Did she make any calls from the car?”
“None.”
“How did she seem?”
“You mean, was she all right? I guess so. She was kind of upset when we left Union Station, cried a little. Then she got real quiet. But when I dropped her at the hotel she acted more cheerful.”
I thanked him and placed a call to Mick.
“Yeah,” his sleepy voice said, “she showed up asking to access my files on the investigation.”
“Let me talk to her.”
“She’s not here.”
“When did she leave?”
“Damned if I know. I went back to bed and didn’t even realize she was gone till now.”
“Did she mention what information she was after?”
“No. She said she wanted to go over all the files. I asked her why, when you’d taken her off the case, and she gave me that look. You know the one.”
I knew. When crossed, Rae would wither her opponent with a fiery glare.
My next call was to the desk of the Century Plaza. The clerk told me Rae had ordered a taxi to take her to LAX around four-thirty.
“Where the hell would she go?” Ricky asked when I relayed the information.
“I haven’t a clue.”
He sat on the sofa and began pulling off his boots. “What in God’s name d’you suppose she’s up to?”
“I suspect she’s working some lead.”
“Dammit! You took her off the investigation.”
“I think you’d better get used to the fact that when she wants to do something, nobody—including you—can stop her.”
“We’ll see about that.” But he didn’t look too sanguine about his prospects.
I glanced at Hy. He was watching me, his gaze coldly analytical. I’d seen that look most recently when he was trying to determine the cause of a power loss in the starboard engine of a Beechcraft we’d rented; I didn’t like him applying it to me.
Ricky said, “Where would she have gotten a lead, anyway? The driver said she didn’t use the phone.”
I shrugged. “Maybe she remembered something, made some connection. I’ll call Mick back, ask him to find out what flights left LAX within an hour of the time she arrived. There couldn’t have been many. Then he can check with the airlines to see if she was listed on any of the passenger manifests; if they won’t give out the information, he can contact a friend of mine on the SFPD and have her go through official channels to get it.”
Ricky nodded, his face falling into weary lines. “The desk is holding all my calls, but I’ll ask them to put Red through if she phones again.”
Hy said, “You going to be able to sleep?”
“I’ve got to, so I will. I developed this shut-down mechanism back when I toured by bus. I’d hit the bunk in one of those customized diesels and I’d be out right quick.” He shook his head. “I’ll tell you, I’m glad I don’t have to travel that way anymore. It’s a young man’s game—a young man who’s hungry and on the way up. Even this kind of tour’s no picnic.”
“You sound like you’re thinking of cutting back on the travel.”
“Maybe, if I can get the redhead safely home and keep her there. Something about that woman makes me look fondly upon evenings in front of the fireplace, without the noise and neon lights.”
Hy and I exchanged glances. While Rae didn’t share our addiction to dangerous situations, there was a restlessness in her that couldn’t be tamed. And as for getting her home safely—we couldn’t hope to accomplish that till we knew where she was.
Hy yawned widely as we walked down the hall to our room. I, on the other hand, felt alert and edgy about being alone with him. His moods were unpredictable at best, and the last thing I needed at this point was a confrontation.
He fit the key card into the slot and silently motioned me inside. Our bags had been delivered; I took my toiletry kit out, went into the bathroom, and shut the door. Through it I could hear him prowling around the room as he always did when arriving at a hotel: the closet door opened; the draperies closed; the TV came on and went off. When I emerged he was removing his shaving kit from his duffel.
He said, “I left a wake-up call for two; at three I’ll go over to the fairgrounds and check out the coliseum.”
I sat down on the bed and untied my athletic shoes. “Okay if I tag along?”
“Whatever.” He disappeared into the bathroom.
His curtness stung me. I shrugged, shed my clothes, and slipped under the covers. When Hy joined me a few minutes later, he simply said, “Sleep well,” and turned his back to me, hugging his pillow. Soon his breathing became deep and regular.
Well, I thought with some irritation, whatever’s bothering him may be keeping me on edge, but it certainly isn’t interfering with his ability to sleep.
RAE’S DIARY:
8:06 A.M., PDT
Sleep.
By the time I passed Santa Maria, where I’d been born and raised, I was wishing I’d gotten some. I should’ve curled up on the couch in Mick’s hotel room, but I’d been so anxious to get started for Paso Robles that I hadn’t even considered it. If I’d been able to fly I could’ve napped on the plane, but by the time anything was leaving LAX for anyplace near the little town at the southern tip of the Salinas Valley, I could have already arrived there by car. Besides, flying was impractical; this spiffy little rental would take me anyplace I needed to get to. No way I was going to leave myself to the mercy of airline schedules.
Basically, I’m a car person—that
type the environmentalists despair of. I’m always poking along in the jammed-up part of the freeway while the civic-minded zoom down the car-pool lane. I love the freedom a car gives me, and I love to drive—although you’d never know it if you saw the Ramblin’ Wreck, my ancient and ailing Rambler American. And although I pretended otherwise, secretly I loved Ricky’s Porsche, even if it had turned me into an asshole driver on the way back from Arizona.
Ricky…
I’d be in Paso Robles by nine-thirty. I’d call him then.
“I couldn’t have been going that fast, officer!”
“I clocked you at eighty-six.”
“Trucks were passing me.”
He kept on writing out the ticket.
“Those trucks’re the real menace, you know. Why don’t you guys pick on them for a change?”
Stern look.
“I didn’t mean… Look, this is a rental car. At home I drive an old Rambler that would fall apart if I went over fifty. I thought I was going the speed limit.”
“Sign here, please.”
I considered pouting—prettily, of course—or maybe letting a tiny tear fall. Then I decided it was a cheap trick, signed the ticket, and pulled into traffic at a sedate fifty-five.
God, that Porsche had ruined me! I’d been driving like an asshole in a Ford Probe!
Paso Robles is one of those little towns that make you wonder why they’re there. At least you do until you grasp the fact that it serves the surrounding agricultural community, as well as sits at the intersection of north-south Highway 101 and 166 from Bakersfield. Its main street roughly parallels 101 and is loaded with motels, my favorite being the Marianna because the first time I saw it I misinterpreted its sign to read “Motel Marijuana.”
My destination was a pink-stucco house on a western side street, the third in a long row of identical bungalows that made me think of a lumber-company town I’d once driven through south of Eureka. It was the address that Patricia Terriss had listed five years ago on her Austin gynecologist’s records, for her nearest relative—a sister, Veronica Keel. How Jenny Gordon had pried that information loose was a mystery to me, doctors being the most closemouthed of individuals. Terriss hadn’t provided a phone number, and when I called Information there was none listed, so a personal visit seemed in order.
The Broken Promise Land Page 27